


The Drop

by nhpw



Series: The Other Eighty-Five Percent [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Coming Untouched, Hand Feeding, M/M, Mentions of Domdrop, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Riding Crops, Sensation Play, Subdrop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 17:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17187302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: Sometimes, even when everything goes exactly according to plan, the morning after is a little rough. This is one of those times.





	The Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You'll notice the official step up to an E rating with this installment - this "episode" takes place the morning AFTER an intense scene involving the more sexual-leaning tags, but the discussion of it is there enough that I thought I should probably up the rating. 
> 
> No actual pancakes were harmed in the writing of this scene.

As a general rule, Jensen has three pre-coffee moods: Fucked out, Grumpy, and Dropped.

This morning, he’s definitely feeling the drop.

Their scene last night had been nothing short of spectacular: They’d decided to go to Misha’s house for the weekend, and Misha had taken Jensen downstairs to introduce him to his larger, less travel-friendly toys. He’d expertly shackled Jensen assward-out to a St. Andrew’s Cross made of darkly stained oak, with adjustable leather cuffs for his hands and feet. He’d felt comfortable, if wholly exposed, but the degree of trust he had in Misha not to exploit that exposition fully transcended his apprehension about being laid so bare.

And speaking of Misha, he’d been masterful in his position, taking his sweet time working Jensen’s body over with a variety of sensations, ranging from the tickle of a feather over his balls to the sharp sting of a riding crop across his ass cheeks, using his hands intermittently to edge Jensen toward release, only to back off at the last second, until Jensen was a mess of tears and sweat, begging to be allowed release, begging for something,  _ anything _ , to push him over the edge. He’d come untouched at Misha’s command, and nearly cried at that accomplishment - it was the first time he’d succeeded in reaching orgasm by voice command alone, and Misha had been so very proud of him, showering him with soft kisses, massaging his wrists and ankles, cuddling him into a deep, comfortable sleep. Both of them had played their parts perfectly; everyone had hit their marks. Nothing had gone wrong. And yet… sometimes, the drop just… happened. Like it’s happening now.

He sighs and reaches over to the other side of the king-sized guest bed only to find it empty, and that only serves to sink him deeper into the drop.  _ Where is Misha? He should be here. It’s his job to take care of me, and I need taking care of. What the fuck could he possibly be doing that’s more important than this at… _ He fumbles for his phone on the bedside table. It reads 9:30 a.m. And it’s Saturday. And that sort of explains everything, because  _ of course _ Misha is up and at ‘em, probably herding his children through a typically messy Collins Breakfast before spending 20 minutes trying to convince Maison that she needs to wear pants. Vicki, he knows, is also home, but Misha likes to lift the weight off her shoulders when he’s home, and now that he realizes how long he slept, Jensen sinks even deeper, feeling guilt wash over him in an unforgiving wave. Misha does so much for everyone. Jensen has no right to be selfish.

And yet… he  _ needs _ . He needs Misha here, touching him, holding him, reassuring him, helping him pull his thoughts up and out so he doesn’t feel like a useless potato.

He tucks his legs under himself and curls into a ball, face-down in his pillow as he lets out a pitiful whimper.

He doesn’t mean to cry any more than that, but just like the drop that’s causing it, it just  _ happens _ . Before he knows it, he’s sobbing into his pillow, and if asked, he’s not sure he could spell out why.

And then he feels something like a very heavy weighted blanket curl around his back, and the tension leave his limbs in a rush. He’s safe. He’s OK. Misha’s here.

They sit like that, Jensen curled into a ball and Misha curved around him, until the rise and fall of Jensen’s back and shoulders indicate he’s returned to a normal breathing pattern. Then Misha moves off of him, but only so that he can make them more comfortable in the bed: He rolls Jensen to his side, gently urges him to uncurl his legs, and pulls Jensen’s face to his chest, holding him gently but in strong arms. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he murmurs, and the fingers of his left hand reach up and start to card through Jensen’s hair. “I was, and then… there were burnt pancakes.” He sighs, and Jensen peeks at his face, which has that look on it that Misha gets when he’s trying to make Jensen laugh about some ridiculous everyday thing.

It earns him a quiet huff.

“I brought you apology breakfast,” Misha offers, and Jensen nods. “When you’re ready, of course.”

“It’s not burnt pancakes, is it?” Jensen manages, though his tone is relatively quiet and flat.

Misha, for his part, chuckles warmly. “No. You need protein and electrolytes, not carbs. Cheese omelette, bacon, side of grapes, and a cup of coffee, fresh-brewed, black as the ace of spades.” He kisses Jensen’s temple. “You’ll be happy to know you’ve broken me of my habit of trying to bring you tea.”

“I love you.” He’s trying to bring himself around. He really is. But it’s just not happening.

“Love you too, Gorgeous, but I need to know where your head is. If I feed you a piece of bacon, will you talk to me?” Jensen nods, and there’s a grunt and some shifting, but then Misha’s holding a piece of bacon, of which he tears off a bite-sized piece and hand-feeds it to Jensen. He repeats the action, one bite at a time, until the strip of bacon is gone, then raises his eyes expectantly.

“I like when you feed me.” It’s not what Misha’s looking for, and Jensen knows it, but his mouth is moving and words are coming out, so it’s a good start. He sighs. “It’s nothing specific. No pain. Well - nothing I’m not enjoying.” He huffs a laugh in spite of himself and rolls his shoulders, reveling in the slight pull of his muscles. “It’s just in my head. I hate that it’s just in my head, Mish, I hate feeling like this.”

“I know. I know.” Misha shifts again, and then there’s a grape pressed against Jensen’s lips. He opens obediently and Misha presses the fruit onto his tongue. The action is repeated several times, leaving just enough time between grapes for chewing and swallowing, until Misha’s hand is empty. “Can we talk about the scene?”

“Sure. I mean. It was… it was  _ great _ , that’s the thing. Got no regrets.”

“OK. Tell me something you particularly enjoyed.”

“The, um.” Jensen swallows hard as he feels his skin flush hot at the memory. “I can’t believe I-- that I was able to get off just at your voice. I mean. I’d heard it was possible, but you…”

“Hmmm…” Misha noses his ear and purrs as he takes Jensen back into his arms, the breakfast abandoned for the moment. “It wasn’t just my voice, though, was it?”

“No.” It’s barely a squeak, the way it comes out, and Jensen feels the tears coming back, like Misha’s drawing that out of him, too. “‘S  _ you _ . I did it because  _ you told me to _ .”

“And in the moment, how did that make you feel?”

“Proud. And-- I don’t know, Mish… I just… I wanted to please you, I wanted to… God, how could I… how could I let myself…”

“That’s the onus of it, isn’t it? You feel like you didn’t have control of yourself, and for the first time in a while, it scared you.”

“I guess.” Jensen furrows his brow, whines again, and huffs out a breath. “No, that’s not it. I’m… I feel…  _ embarrassed _ .” That’s not it  _ exactly _ , but it’s as close as he can come to the truth, for the moment.

“Ah.”

“Ah? That’s it? ‘Ah’?”

Misha’s initial answer is a long sigh. “It’s… I can’t label your feelings for you. It’s not my job to give words to how you feel, not now, not ever. But… I’m going to be very honest with you, and I trust you not to make anything big of it, OK?”

“‘Course, Mish.”

“I love the things we do together, but sometimes, afterward… I… feel ashamed.” Jensen’s eyes go wide, and Misha sighs again and pats his thigh. “That’s how  _ I  _ drop. My confidence shakes and I feel horrible for the things I did to you, or the way I spoke to you, or the things I asked you to do. I feel… filthy. It’s temporary, of course, but it’s… jarring.”

“So you’re wondering if that’s what I feel? Shame?” He looks up and catches Misha’s raise of eyebrows and sinks back into the pillows on his back in defeat. “I don’t get it, Mish. My brain knows I’m not ashamed. My brain is proud as fuck. How the hell can I be proud and ashamed at the same time?”

Misha grabs another piece of bacon from the plate and starts feeding it to Jensen in pieces, answering as he does so. “I’m no expert on human hormones,” he says with a small smile of apology. “But I do know that what you’re feeling is normal.” 

“M’sorry, but I don’t think anything we did last night falls in the category of  _ normal _ .” He accepts the last piece of bacon from Misha’s fingers, and to his surprise, he takes stock of his feelings and notices they’re starting to come around. He still feels sore, but not in any way he’s ready to complain about. And he still feels a little…  _ down  _ inside… but it’s no longer weighing so heavily on his shoulders that he can’t get out of bed.

Misha feeds him a few pieces of fruit before handing him his coffee. “That’s a discussion for another time,” he says, just when Jensen thought his comment wasn’t going to get any response at all. “Right now, in this moment, I just want to make sure you’re going to be OK. How are you doing now?”

He sips the coffee before responding. “Better,” he says at last, quietly, and turns his head to offer Misha a lover’s smile. They shift so that they’re sitting cross-legged and facing each other on the bed, and Jensen drinks his coffee while Misha sips from a mug Jensen hadn’t noticed. It’s identical to Jensen’s in shape and color, but it probably contains tea. “How… how do you, you know. Process it? Your drop?”

“Well,” and Misha’s got that twinkle in his eye that Jensen absolutely loves; the one he gets when he’s going to impart some piece of wisdom on a subject he adores. “Providing aftercare to you is a big part of it. Channeling that misplaced guilt into washing you, coddling you, bringing you a meal…” he gestures to the nearly empty plate on the nightstand. “And talking to you about the scene. When I ask you what you enjoyed… that’s as much for my knowledge as it is for my peace of mind that you  _ did actually _ enjoy yourself. That you wanted me to do… everything I did.”

“I did. I do.” Jensen leans forward for a peck of a kiss, and then rests his forehead against Misha’s, eyes closed, the steam from their mugs rising to warm their faces. “I have no regrets, and you shouldn’t either.”

“I don’t.”

“Well good.”

There’s a long, silent moment, but like all good things, it slips away. Eventually Jensen’s ears begin to absorb sounds from outside the bedroom, and he catches Maison’s trademark giggle, and the soft, muffled cadence of Vicki’s voice. “I’m not feeding you your eggs,” Misha imparts with a smile, and Jensen pulls back and maneuvers around to grab the plate so that he can eat them while Misha pulls back on the pajama pants he apparently discarded before climbing into bed. “Finish that, then throw on something from my bottom drawer and come downstairs.” He winks -- tries, anyway, bless him -- and disappears out the door.

Something still sits a tad heavy in Jensen’s gut; it will probably be that way all day, he admits. But he feels better for Misha’s attentions, and that’s a start.


End file.
